


Gawain; Or, The Problem With Duels

by JCBookworm



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Perceval ou le Conte du Graal | Perceval the Story of the Grail - Chrétien de Troyes, Romans | Arthurian Romances - Chrétien de Troyes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Gen, Road Trips, Which I do not, actually neither did clarissant, and clarissant deserves better than guiromelant, and it won't be until a bit later, but it's canonical, but medieval edition!!!, chretien de troyes told me so himself, hi and welcome to the fanfiction i wrote just to kill of my least favourite character, i think gawain deserves a sister and a best friend, if you count the continuations as canon, it's no one important but in case people don't want to read it, so it's an alternate continuation, this picks up at the end of the main body and before the first continuation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29942391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCBookworm/pseuds/JCBookworm
Summary: Gawain was not expecting for the castle he was staying at to belong to his long-dead grandmother and mother, neither of whom know him. Nor was he expecting to have a new sister he had never known the existence of. But sometimes, the biggest surprises can become allies. And he is going to need allies for what comes next...OR, Gawain gets a new sister, a new friend, and a new quest to deal with.
Kudos: 6





	Gawain; Or, The Problem With Duels

**Author's Note:**

> Not going to lie, I spent a while writing it and never thought of a title, so this is what you get for now
> 
> Quick context: if you follow me on tumblr then you may know that I have developed a hatred for Guiromelant. This is because I love Clarissant and she deserves so much better than him. Frankly, the first continuation making out that she was distraught that him and Gawain were going to fight because she didn't know who she was going to support irritates me to no end, especially as in the first story she roasted him for thinking she'd put him above her brother. Also then they get married against Gawain's wishes?? And they had never actually met before? Whatever, it makes me angry. I guess it depends on which translation you read but of the two I read, in the first one she likes him because he wrote such lovely letters, and in the second she basically just said that she loves him because he wouldn't leave her alone. Also he killed someone's boyfriend, tried to make her love him (incredibly sketchy) and then got mad when she left. I hate this man.
> 
> That aside, I think Gawain going on a quest with two people who have never been on quests before and have no time to hype him up is an excellent concept. Also he and Clarissant deserved more time together.
> 
> Also it should be worth mentioning that I'm not really looking at the poem Parzival, either.  
> I know that in it he does rather conveniently name the Haughty Maiden as Orgeluse. Here, she is called Isabeau. The name difference is kind of explained later.
> 
> Basically it's my story and I get to decide which bits I'm going to take.
> 
> So, introductory rant over I guess? Enjoy

Gawain watched, from the height of the tower, as the servant rode off in haste. It was rather sweet how eager he seemed to please, galloping away on the word of a strange, unknown knight: though perhaps that was unfair. Just because he had latent trust issues it didn’t mean that everyone had reached that stage.

And speaking of latent trust issues—

 _His mother_.

Under the very same roof as him. Well, figuratively speaking, because the tower of course had a separate roof, being so high—

But still.

He hadn’t thought he’d ever see her again. Well, he’d thought she was dead to be fair, but the sentiment still worked. After all, his personal experience aside, beheadings didn’t typically leave much room for recovery.

He frankly had mixed feelings about the whole thing. The whole business with Lamorak had been nasty, even by his standards: Agravain had secluded himself away for weeks, Gareth retreating to the kitchens and to Kay. Mordred had systematically destroyed every training dummy in Camelot before Galahad had herded him away… somewhere. Gawain hadn’t checked. Gaheris hadn’t even bothered returning to Camelot, simply leaving from the site. He’d mentioned something about Maurus though, and Gawain had figured that some space would be a good idea. It was probably – definitely – thanks to Gareth’s intervention that he hadn’t already been killed in a red haze of rage.

But _God_ , Lamorak didn’t even matter, what mattered was that his _mother_ was here, his mother was here and he hadn’t even recognised her, and she hadn’t recognised him. Had that truly been their relationship? They’d never been close, and he hadn’t ever been hesitant to admit that she was not made to be a mother. But only twenty years of death separating them and they could no longer at all know each other’s face. He’d had to be told by a man who had never even met either of them.

Always willing to think on violence rather than anything sentimental, Gawain’s thoughts turned to that very man. His fist clenched. He did not care to judge others on any ill-thoughts they held towards him: indeed, if he followed that practice then he should have a very bad opinion on humanity indeed. But the man’s demeanour had irritated him. He was no unused to that type at court: acting open and chivalrous even in their challenges, a friendly competition, despite being scoundrels amongst those who could not defend themselves. Though admittedly reluctant to see his sister (and wasn’t _that_ something to consider) with someone who so roundly disparaged him, the knight’s professions of their love had swayed him. That, at the very least, was something Gawain could excuse and allow. Clarissant’s admittance, however, that they had never even so much as spoken: indeed, that they had never come close to properly meeting: had… disappointed him, immensely. To think such a man should have stolen the affections of his noble sister through flattery and trickery. Clarissant seemed smart enough, but nonetheless sheltered, and had been raised in the safety and affection of this castle under her mother and grandmother. She likely did not know how deceptive men could be. And after what Isabeau had told him…

Well, that was certainly not a man he wanted courting his sister.

Could he say something?

There was no reason for her to listen to him, not truly. She didn’t even know who he was. As a rule, he didn’t reveal his identity to many people if there was a chance to politely refuse. But she was _family_ , after all. Shouldn’t he let her know who he was?

More importantly, was he ready to let his _mother_ know who he was?

Clearly, he needed a second opinion, which was not something he admitted to himself often.

It was lost in thought that he began making his way back down the stairs, and immediately almost knocked someone over.

“My apologies,” he began, reaching out automatically to steady who he presumed was a maid. “I could not quite register you in my thought—”

“Because it’s so difficult for you to think?” Came Isabeau’s drawl. Gawain shook his head briefly and blinked at the slender figure of who indeed was the woman who had almost lead to him being drowned.

“Oh,” he sighed. “Hello, my lady.”

Isabeau raised an eyebrow and then a hand to his forehead as though checking for an imaginary fever. Gawain batted her hand away, trying to conceal a smile. Gaheris always did the same thing.

It didn’t go unnoticed though, and Isabeau nudged him playfully on the shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Or am I going to have to force you?”

Gawain scoffed. “How on earth could you force me to tell you?”

“I’ll throw you in the river.”

“Ouch,” Gawain affected a pained expression and placed a hand to his chest. “After all we’ve been through?”

Isabeau looked unimpressed. “I’ve known you a day.”

“Day and a half?”

“And,” she continued as though no interruption had occurred, “I can already tell something’s bothering you. Spill.”

She gripped him by the sleeve and dragged him down so they were sat beside one another on the steps.

He was silent for a while, unsure of what to admit to her. Truly they didn’t know each other, at all. But she’d told him about her past love and the pain of his loss, and he _had_ just been thinking that he needed some advice—

Very well.

“Do you know who this belongs to?” Gawain began cautiously. “The castle, the land?”

“Of course,” Isabeau nodded. “The lady Igraine and her daughter, the mother of…”

As the sentence trailed off, her eyes grew wide.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” She continued in a hushed tone. “Sir Gawain? The Maiden’s Knight?”

“Well—" he had to admit, he was more used to ‘nephew of King Arthur’ rather than his other title, though actually he could see why Isabeau might use one over the other. “Yes, I am.”

“So that is…” she frowned, the realisation clearly setting in. “That’s your mother, then? How doesn’t _she_ know?”

“I—" Gawain hesitated. “I don’t know. Perhaps there is some kind of influence from the castle itself, but I did not know her either until Guiromelant informed me.”

Isabeau pursed her lips. “Does _he_ know?”

“I did end up telling him, yes.” He admitted. “We had a deal when it came to the questions.”

“He doesn’t like you.”

“I did get that impression.”

“Like, he has plans to kill you.”

“You’d be surprised how often I get that,” Gawain grinned over at her. “Which is why he challenged me to a duel.”

Isabeau’s eyes widened.

“You know that he is an incredibly skilled fighter,” she warned. “I’ve seen him. He has yet to be beaten.”

“He hasn’t fought me yet.”

“Right,” said the lady, looking highly unimpressed. “Well, you seem sure enough. What is the deal?”

Gawain shrugged. “If he wins, then I die, I suppose. He gets revenge for the deaths of his father and cousin. But more importantly—” and here his expression darkened. “He gets Clarissant.”

Isabeau blinked. “You’ve lost me.”

“Oh,” Gawain startled, having forgotten that she wasn’t used to him randomly throwing out death facts. “Well, my father killed his, and I apparently killed his cousin, so if he kills me—”

“Not that bit,” she tutted, waving her hands as though to brush away his explanation. “I don’t really care about that. What was the last bit?”

“Right,” Gawain continued, slightly wondering why she wasn’t interested in this blood feud. “He’s apparently in love with Clarissant.”

“The Queen’s daughter?” Isabeau checked. At his nod, she continued. “So, she’s your sister, I suppose?” Another nod. “And Guiromelant fancies himself in love with her.”

“That about sums it up.”

She huffed a stray piece of hair away from her face. “Tricky. Does she like him?”

“She says so,” he frowned. “Apparently he wrote her some nice letters. But I fear that she has been drawn in and is simply too sheltered to understand the difficulty she is facing.”

By this point Gawain was staring at the wall in thought, so he couldn’t see Isabeau’s brow furrowing.

“Have you told her any of this?” She asked. “Does she even know who you are?”

“No,” Gawain sighed. “I simply can’t explain it all to her. I was not intending for my identity to be known here.”

“Hmm,” Isabeau nodded, her expression clearing. “Well, I know exactly what to do.”

And with that, she delivered a solid hit to the back of his head.

“Ouch!” He exclaimed, because despite how much he hung out with Guinevere, he was still not used to pretty ladies trying to hit some sense into him. “What was that for?!”

“Your own good,” Isabeau retorted, settling back down. “You’re being silly. Your sister seems very smart, and she can make her own life decisions. She doesn’t need you coming in and taking over as though you have control over her. You simply have to explain things to her.”

He clearly still looked indecisive, because she groaned and patted his shoulder.

“You have brothers, right?” She asked eventually.

He nodded at that. “Four.”

Isabeau paused to let out a whistle, then continued. “Well, how would you feel if you found out that one of them was living with you, but you had no idea? And not only that, but they were going to make important decisions about your life without revealing themselves for no reason other than their own pride?”

Well, it wasn’t the exact scenario, of course, but he really didn’t have to imagine. The feeling when Gareth had revealed himself, the knowledge that he hadn’t recognised his own brother, was still sore.

“I am being foolish, aren’t I?” He sighed as the full weight of it struck him.

“Yes,” Isabeau hummed. “But we all are, sometimes. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

She used his shoulder to stand up, then held out a hand for him. “Come on. Let’s go talk to your sister.”

They didn’t get to meet Clarissant then, because almost inevitably they ran into a maid, who herded them towards the still ongoing feast. It was more uncomfortable than he had expected, because of course his mother wished to speak to him often, and continuously brought up Clarissant, without knowing of any relation. He didn’t quite regret keeping himself a secret, but certainly Isabeau’s expression seemed to express that this would not have happened if she knew who he was.

Which was… fair.

And so it wasn’t until that knight, when Isabeau had knocked on his door and forcibly dragged him out of the chair he’d been ‘brooding’ (her words) in, that they actually ended up creeping through the hallway towards Clarissant’s room.

“This feels really creepy,” Gawain muttered in a low tone, not sure exactly which rooms were occupied.

Isabeau glared at him over her shoulder. “I refuse to believe you haven’t done something like this before.”

“Gallivanted around the castle of my deceased mother to find the sister I didn’t know about so that I can persuade her not to marry the man who want to kill me?” He snarked back. “This is a new one.”

“You’re so annoying,” she groaned. “I can tell you have brothers.”

“You can?”

He had to admit that he’d never really been told that. His younger brothers always seemed to be classed by being related to him, and he wasn’t blind: he could see the narrowing of Agravain’s eyes, how Gaheris’ shoulders tensed minutely, the slight lift of Gareth’s chin as though he had to stand up to the title, even the pursing of Mordred’s lips – though Mordred, of course, had other family connections to avoid – every time they were seen through him rather than for themselves. But _he_ never received the same treatment. Sometimes it seemed as though they might be his brothers, but he was not theirs. It felt strange for them to be acknowledged as having an influence on him, rather than the other way round.

It was not a bad feeling.

“This is it,” Isabeau said suddenly, sounding somewhat relieved. “This is definitely her room.”

“Wonderful!” Gawain cried. They both stared at the door for a beat. “What do we do now?”

Isabeau huffed in a way that clearly demonstrated that she didn’t have a clue. “I got us here!” She protested. “You can figure out the next part.”

Gawain glared at the door as though it had personally murdered his family.

“We could always… knock?” He offered eventually. Typically, his strategy was ‘barge in and don’t worry’, but he thought that perhaps it would set a bad atmosphere.

Both Isabeau and Gawain looked at the other, until Gawain gestured vaguely at the door and Isabeau, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, knocked.

No answer.

Gawain knocked this time, slightly harder.

Still no answer.

“That’s unfortunate,” Isabeau said thoughtfully. “Maybe we _should_ just break in.”

“I was just considering that—” Gawain began.

“I know,” she replied, examining the lock. “You were saying it aloud.” She sighed. “No, you were right. It would certainly get the discussion off to a bad start. What if we picked the lock?”

“Less loud maybe, but it would still probably frighten her. We could stage an emergency?”

“Too much disruption, and there’s no guarantee we would get to speak to her at all. What about a fire in her room so she has to leave?”

“We still need to be in there for that. What about climbing through her window?” 

“Too high up, and there’s no certainty that we could actually break through. Besides, that would give her an easy place to throw us out of.”

“Very true.”

“You could burn down her door.”

“No,” Gawain sighed. “That’s still a bunch of problems from before. Besides—"

Both Isabeau and Gawain halted, frozen, as they registered at the same time that neither of them had suggested that. It was with great reluctance that they turned as one to see the girl standing behind them, head cocked curiously.

“Hello,” greeted Clarissant. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Um,” Gawain replied intelligently.

“Yes,” agreed Isabeau.

Clarissant nodded as though this made perfect sense. “I see.” She held up her hand, which held a basket of various fruits and flowers. “Would you mind opening the door for me?”

Isabeau narrowed her eyes slightly.

“You will need to tell us how to get in,” she ventured cautiously. Gawain had to agree: his sister may be standing in front of them, but now that simply meant that he would never know how he could have solved it.

Clarissant blinked at them both as though wondering if they were joking.

“You just… push it?”

Gawain, who was honestly still struggling with what he should say to her, half-turned and pushed the handle down. It did indeed swing gently inwards.

Isabeau and Gawain were still for long enough to let Clarissant make her way inside with a gentle nod at them both.

“It was unlocked,” Gawain observed eventually.

“Maybe we were thinking too big,” Isabeau admitted, then she shook herself and tapped Gawain’s arm, gesturing inside. He nodded, took a deep breath, and entered.

Clarissant’s rooms were rather pretty. They were large, this first one with a fireplace, reclining chairs and cushions surrounding it. A desk stood by the window. Through a large archway flanked by tapestries, Gawain could just see her bed, thick curtains drawn closed.

The lady in question was watching them cautiously, clearly waiting for some kind of explanation.

This was it. This was the moment when he told her of his identity, the moment there would be no going back from. All he had to say was—

“Why are your curtains closed?”

In the corner of his eye, he could see Isabeau groan and bury her face in her hands. Clarissant shook her head, obviously taken aback, and followed his gaze.

“My bed curtains?” She clarified. “Um…”

A slight blush touched the sides of her cheeks, and coloured her ears red. It was almost amusing, if only for the fact that the same thing happened when Gareth blushed. He always protested that it was his hair colour, though in fairness Clarissant’s hair was closest to the colour of Gaheris’ than any others.

“Mother doesn’t particularly like me leaving the castle when it is late,” Clarissant admitted. “But these flowers don’t often bloom, and they’re my favorites. So this way if she comes to check, I—"

She straightened herself. “I apologise, Sir Knight, but I am afraid that I still wish to know why you were at my door at such an hour.”

“Right,” Gawain acknowledged. “That’s fair. Why don’t you, er, sit down?”

She did so gracefully, and with some amount of hesitation, he joined her. Isabeau retreated to the far corner to examine a wall hanging and give them some measure of privacy.

“I—" he began, and then stopped. Where was he possibly supposed to go with this? People spoke of his skill with speech, but right now he was lost.

What would he normally do?

Okay, that didn’t matter, because he was himself and clearly this was stuck. What would Agravain do?

Honesty? That seemed like Aggs, though admittedly that mostly just meant bluntly sarcastic comments.

Worth a shot.

“I had not told you my name,” he began. Clarissant nodded expectantly. “Which I am about to do, now, right now.” He tried to focus on the thought of his brothers being in the room with him. They would probably be laughing at him, but even that gave him some measure of comfort. He met Clarissant’s eyes.

“My name is Sir Gawain of Orkney.”

Clarissant stared at him blankly for a good few seconds before her eyes widened and she sprung back.

That was… not exactly what he’d been hoping for.

“That is cruel, Sir,” she spat at him, eyes quickly narrowing. He stood in alarm, and she followed suit. “After I told you of my brother and how he does not even know of my existence, and now you come to me in the middle of the night and claim to be him?” She straightened her dress. “I would ask you to leave, now.”

Over Clarissant’s shoulder, Isabeau was making frantic gestures to him which he couldn’t quite make out, but frankly he had driven his courage too far to back down now.

“My lady,” he tried again. “I swear to you, I am indeed your brother Gawain. I had my own reasons for keeping myself secret, and I apologise to you for them.”

Clarissant looked unimpressed.

“Prove it, then.” She said.

“What?”

“If you’re Gawain, I want you to prove it. Otherwise I shan’t believe you.”

“I don’t really know how to…” he stopped at Clarissant’s glare. “Okay, okay. Something only I would know. Um, our mother’s name is Morgause, she was the wife of King Lot. We have four brothers, though Mordred does not share a father with us.” He halted and blinked. “Though, of course, I am not certain if _we_ share a father, either—"

“You are not persuading me, and I have a dagger in my belt.”

“That’s alarming. Wait, okay. I grew up around pirates because I was sold to them when I was younger. My horse has an incredibly high body count and I have had to fake a battle twice because of that. I once threw a necklace of mother’s out of the window because I thought it was cursed. Mother thought it was Gaheris, but it wasn’t, it was me. I refuse to have pink flowers in my room because one time Agravain and Mordred gave me some and they turned out to be drugged. I can’t— _what_ are you doing?”

This last bit was aimed at Isabeau, whose gestures had become more frantic, waving her hand around wildly and then gesturing to her neck.

Clarissant didn’t even bother to look over her shoulder when she replied, “She’s telling you to show me your ring.”

“My—" Gawain gaped at them both for a second before pulling the long, thin chain around his neck from which his signet ring hung. “Of course.”

A realisation struck him and he stared at Clarissant, who now wore a small smile. “I didn’t need to tell you any of that, did I?”

“I was expecting you to simply show me some form of signet,” she allowed, “rather than telling me all of that, but I was not disappointed. I shall be sure to avoid pink flowers for you.” And with that, she held out a hand expectantly.

He dropped the ring into it.

The next minute was tense. Gawain, not feeling able to look away, simply had to watch Clarissant examine the ring. She stared at it for a long time, twisting it this way and that, holding it up to the light.

“I see,” she said eventually.

The next thing he knew, Gawain was engulfed in a sweet smell and a mess of reddish curls. Clarissant had thrown her arms around him, holding onto him desperately. He released the breath that had been gathering and wrapped his arms around her in return.

It felt right.


End file.
